


the movement of a hand

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon snorted quietly and leaned across the table again, catching Robb's arm as he tried to steal back his wine cup, his thumb brushing the inside of Robb's wrist. Robb's breath caught, the heat in his belly flaring up into his chest, itching at something under his skin; he slid his hand up Jon's thigh, smiling at the soft, startled sound Jon made in the back of his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the movement of a hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/profile)[**asoiafkinkmeme**](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/) , and the prompt _Jon/Robb, secret handjobs under the table at supper_.

The Great Hall was hazy and loud, the air thick with both smoke and raised voices. Fires burned in every hearth, warmer and brighter than the lamps glowing on the tables, and the Karstark men were well into their cups, shouting and clapping their hands, encouraging each other to eat more and drink faster with rough laughter and crude boasts. Robb pushed his plate away and offered his empty cup to a serving girl waiting with a flagon of wine. At his side, Cregan Karstark made a particularly vulgar jest, a belch creaking through his words; he overturned a trencher of potatoes and onions as he stabbed his dagger into the table, and Robb stood to avoid a quickly spreading puddle of gravy.

A serving girl hurried over with a handful of cloths, and Robb climbed over the bench to give her more space, grateful for the excuse to escape the high table for a moment. He enjoyed the excitement that came with a feast, music and dancing and more wine that he was normally allowed at supper, but Lord Karstark and his men had been at Winterfell over a week. Robb was tired of wearing his best clothes and making polite conversation in every courtyard, and he missed spending time with Jon, who was always kept out of sight when their father's bannermen came to visit, practicing in different yards and eating at the lower tables.

Robb spotted Jon at the third table from the door, sopping his bread between two men with the grubby, shifty look of freeriders, the kind of drifters who fell in with traveling parties just for the food and drink and shelter to be had at the end of the road. The music was barely a dull murmur at this end of the Great Hall, drowned out by the constant thrum of drunken voices and the harsh shouts for more meat and ale, by the dogs milling impatiently under the benches, yapping and growling as they waited for fallen scraps. Robb whistled sharply, the same three notes he used whenever he and Jon got separated in the Wolfswood; Jon looked up at Robb and smiled, his wine cup halfway to his mouth.

"How fast can you saddle two horses?" Robb asked, pinching Jon's arm as he squeezed in beside him on the bench.

"Faster than you, if I was willing," Jon replied mildly. "Which I am not. Your mother would geld me if I made off with you in the middle of a feast."

"It's almost over," Robb said, helping himself to Jon's cup. The wine at the lower tables was heavily watered and more than a little sour, but Robb drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he held it out to be refilled. "We could take a walk once the hall clears. The godswood is quiet at night."

"The godswood is cold at night."

Robb huffed under his breath. "Ass."

Jon smiled and leaned across the table, reaching for the bread, his thigh pressing warm and firm against Robb's, and Robb took another swallow of wine as his face flushed and heat twisted in his belly. He missed talking with Jon and eating with Jon and sparring with Jon in the yard, but he also missed having Jon in his bed at night, missed having Jon's skin under his hands and Jon's mouth against his. Robb was sharing his chambers with Theon and Bran, had been since Lord Karstark and his men arrived; sitting this close to Jon had Robb half-hard and restless, and it didn't help that Jon was watching him with wide, bright eyes, that he was sucking chicken grease from his fingers with slow curls of his tongue and soft, wet noises Robb could practically feel.

"The godswood doesn't have to be cold," Robb said quietly, curving his hand over Jon's knee. "We could take some furs with us, or use one of the hot pools."

"Tired of Greyjoy's snoring already?" Jon asked, tearing a heel of dark, crusty bread in half. 

"I'm tired of him coming in at dawn, smelling like he's been fucking in the stables."

Jon snorted quietly and leaned across the table again, catching Robb's arm as he tried to steal back his wine cup, his thumb brushing the inside of Robb's wrist. Robb's breath caught, the heat in his belly flaring up into his chest, itching at something under his skin; he slid his hand up Jon's thigh, smiling at the soft, startled sound Jon made in the back of his throat. 

"Robb."

"Quiet," Robb whispered, tugging on Jon's laces, slipping his hand inside Jon's breeches. "Don't say anything."

Jon _didn't_ say anything, but he made that soft, throaty sound again -- a little louder, a little rougher, the same noise he made when he cock was in Robb's mouth -- and he hunched closer to the table, curling his hands into tight fists beside his plate. He bit his lip as Robb's fingers ran up the length of his cock, sucked in a sharp breath as Robb's hand wrapped around it; Robb stroked him slowly, moving his hand as much as he could in the little space he had, his own cock aching at the dark, needy look in Jon's eyes, at the slight hitch in Jon's breath, at the bright spots of color blooming on Jon's cheeks.

At the high table, Rickard Karstark stood suddenly, lifting his wine cup, shouting out a toast Robb couldn't quite hear. A raucous cheer erupted around him, his men jumping to their feet and raising their cups in turn, the noise fading into a slow murmur as it rippled down to the lower tables, and Robb twisted his wrist slightly, stroking his hand up Jon's cock, brushing his thumb over the head before sliding back down. Jon hissed quietly, his eyes closed and his mouth open and a muscle twitching sharply in his jaw; Robb wanted to lean over and kiss him, bite the well of his lip, drag his tongue over the line of his throat, wanted to fuck him right there on the table, his hands at Jon's hips and his teeth at Jon's neck and Jon's legs shaking as they wrapped around his waist. 

Jon slipped his hand under the table, his fingers warm and sweaty and digging into Robb's arm; his hips were restless and shifting, and his other hand was white-knuckled, trembling as he kneaded and clutched at his napkin. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Robb asked.

"No," Jon said, his voice soft, breathless, his tongue slicking out to wet his lips. "No."

Robb stroked Jon as hard and fast as he dared, tightening his hand slightly, finding a rhythm that almost matched the short, careful twitches of Jon's hips. His own cock was harder than a stone, aching at every sound Jon made, curving desperately against the front of his breeches; Jon sighed and leaned closer, slouching into both Robb and the table, and Robb gasped sharply as Jon's hand slid into his lap, slid right over his cock, covering the noise with a cough when one of the freeriders gave him a curious look. Jon tugged on Robb's placket, his fingers snagging in the laces, his left hand clumsy and uncoordinated, and Robb caught his wrist, curling his hand over Jon's, pressing down as he lifted his hips.

Jon spent with a low, choked noise he mostly managed to swallow, his eyes closed and his free hand fisted in the folds of his surcoat. He rubbed Robb's cock with the heel of his hand, quick strokes that made the heat in Robb's belly knot and pull tight; he spent with a moan caught in the back of his throat, his legs shaking and his fingernails digging into the back of Jon's hand. 

Before Robb could breathe again, Jon sat up and yanked his napkin into his lap. "Your mother," he explained, pushing the napkin into Robb's warm, seed-sticky hand. "She just looked over here. I think the dancing is about to start."

"The Others take the dancing," Robb said quietly. "How many people are in your chambers?" 

"Four," Jon replied. "Three squires and Arthor Karstark's bastard."

"When the feast is over, will you meet me in the godswood?" 

Jon smiled, his cheeks flushed and his hair sweaty at his temples. "I will."


End file.
